


Out With the Old, and In With the Wine

by katuman



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Politics, a metric shit-liter of wine probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katuman/pseuds/katuman
Summary: The general election of 2001 hits Feliciano a little bit hard.





	

_Rome, Italy_

_2001_

It was the _silence_ that Germany found disconcerting, he reflected as he climbed the last flight of seemingly endless stairs to Italy’s flat. He had expected a page at least—a frustrated phone call more likely—but election day had come and gone; the Italian cabinet had raged and reformed and rallied around Berlusconi, and Italy himself had said… nothing.

To say that Germany was concerned would be a great understatement, insufficient to _really_ describe the low-grade anxiety that has been festering in his chest for the last day and a half. On the plane he had reminded himself, multiple times, that there were days when Italy simply yanked the telephone cord out of the wall and chose to sleep in. But he did not want to remember that there had also been days where Italy simpl _y wandered away._

He paused at the door and wondered if he should knock. He had been given a key—and many more previously, to all of the various places they had called “home” over the decades—but common courtesy had also been drilled into him since he was a boy. He rapped a knuckle against the door to the apartment and listened. Nothing forthcoming, but at least the formality had been seen through to the end. He turned the key in the lock, tucked his jacket under his arm, and stepped into the main room of the apartment, whereupon the mystery folded in on itself.

Italy sat on the carpet, his legs spread out unevenly over the floor amidst several bottles of wine while another tilted precariously in his lap. He stared at the television, and by the alarmingly disheveled state of his hair probably had been all night. He was not startled at all by the door opening, and did nothing to indicate that he was even aware of it.

And for a moment, Germany just lingered in the doorway uncertainly. There were no right words for this, and no right man to give them. Now more than half a century since he had become a cautionary tale for the rest of the world, he wondered whether he even had the right to _try._

“You know, he filmed his _first_ acceptance speech in his living room,” said Italy without even turning to look at him. “He wasn’t even holding real paper. It was all _blank_.” He gestured clumsily at the screen with a dry red, spraying a few little flecks on his shirt as Berlusconi smiled on.

“You’re very drunk.” said Germany softly, as he shut the front door behind him and locked it.

“I am getting there, yes."  

"Meine liebe, I think you’ve long since _arrived_.”

He hadn’t _intended_ it to be as lighthearted as it apparently sounded. But at this Italy laughed, sullenly, and dabbed at the dark shadows under his eyes. “…I love you too.”

Nudging a couple of burgundies off to the side, Germany settled in next to him. “May I?” he glanced at the television.

Italy gave a shrug, and drank deeper.

Strange that the push of a button was all that it took to forget, for a moment, that the prime minister even existed. A momentary reprieve in relative silence with only the sounds of the low-muffled street life below. The entire apartment smelled like a wine cellar, and Feli in particular, but he did not dare break the atmosphere by opening a window. 

“I think I’m going to quit my job,” Italy mused. “And pursue a full-time career as an alcoholic, like my father before me.” The lilt in his words felt very near genuine, but there was no real whimsy or mirth in his eyes.

“Don’t talk like that.”

Italy looked at him and with immense gravity—and something he would not hesitate to call outright defiance—tipped his head back and swallowed the rest of the bottle. Well. So much for appealing to optimism. Germany decided to try for diplomacy.

“Italia,”

“ _No_.”

“ _Italia_ ,” Germany reiterated, more sternly, drawing him closer. “This isn’t going to help.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Have you _tried_ the Aglianico, Germany? I think it’s actually helping _a lot_.”

“You’ll have to meet with him, sooner or later.”

Silence. 

“Feliciano, please. Talk to me.”

“ _Porca puttana_.” was all that he said as his head fell heavily onto Germany’s shoulder.

Germany knew well enough to be sure it was neither words nor demeanor so much as exhaustion. He kissed the part in his hair, the worry lines on his brow.

“ _I can’t believe I’m going to have to do this again_.”  

“I know.” Germany said.

“I can’t just go out there and _legitimize_ him.”

“He will find what _he_ calls legitimacy among other like-minded people, regardless.”

Italy hiccuped, and buried his face deeper into his shoulder. “Bedside manner, Germania.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Va bene. You’re probably right.”

He did not enjoy being right very much in these times. "Comfort and perspective do not have to be mutually exclusive, I think.” Germany offered in his defense, as his hand moved gently down the length of Italy’s back: a mosaic of tension and knots that ran all the way down the Apennine Range. “You’re in a difficult, stressful situation. Berlusconi is… Ugh.” He fumbled for words.

Italy scoffed. “A _known criminal_?”

“… _challenging_.” Germany winced. “But you cannot refuse to come out of your house for the next however-many years.” His gentle attempt to pry the empty bottle of wine from Italy’s fingers met with only token resistance. Germany set it down quietly with the others, but well out of reach. “I will not lie to you and tell you that all will be well. Nor would I insult your intelligence by telling you that your fears are unfounded. But you _will_ see this through, and you will do what you can,” he whispered. “And right now your people need you to be there, to keep him in check.”

“I won’t do it sober, I can promise you that.“

"You _have_ to.” Germany frowned. “You owe them that much.”


End file.
